It Might Have Been
by noctuua
Summary: "Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, 'it might have been'." Trigger warning for self-harm and suicide.


_A/N: I've never written a fic that needed a trigger warning, so I apologize if I do this incorrectly. This story contains self-harm and suicide, so I'm warning that if this will cause damage to you, please do not read. Obviously, there's character death, but the ending is happy in a way..Please see A/N at the end for more information._

_Edit: Reading over this, I realized that I forgot a part, and it was like, the most important part, kind of, so I added it, hah._

_"Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, 'it might have been'." - Kurt Vonnegut_

* * *

She thinks about Clint in the shower because it and her dreams are the only two places where she actually gets to have him.

She thinks about his beautiful arms, so elegant and deadly; she thinks about his lips and the way they might feel, blazing hot paths across her skin; she thinks about his hands, about how rough they look, but how gentle they are; she thinks about his body, his hard planes and angles, and how perfectly they fit together, although they've never _been _together.

She comes with her hand clenched between her thighs and a moan that claws its way up her throat and rolls out of her mouth, Clint's name tumbling along with it.

* * *

Natasha's just wrapping herself in a towel when she hears a loud knocking on her door, and she can't stop herself from hoping that it's Clint, because it's been a month since they last spoke and six months since he left on his solo mission.

When she opens the door, her coy smile is met with a weary Steve, his mouth a hard line and his eyes cast towards her feet. She swaps expressions easily, like a mask, shooting him a polite smile.

"How can I help you, Cap?"

He continues to avoid her gaze.

"Natasha...I-Maybe I should come in," he manages to stutter.

Her eyes narrow and she takes a step towards him.

"What is it, Steve?"

He finally looks up and Natasha realizes how tired he looks, how distressed.

"It's Clint."

And suddenly Natasha's finding it a little hard to breathe.

"He's away in Bangkok for his solo mission, he's supposed to be back soon," she says and she realizes how urgent her voice has become because this is what is true. Because Clint is _fine_.

"Natasha," Steve sighs, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder, but she flinches away before it can make contact.

"No, he's fine." Now Natasha's the one avoiding eye contact.

"He was killed last night during an ambush."

Natasha's world comes to a complete standstill. All she can hear is blood pulsing through her ears and she can't breathe and _it isn't true_. She realizes the ground is rushing towards her face, just a second too late, and Steve's arms wrap around her waist to keep her steady.

"Natasha, I'm so sor-"

She slams her hand over his mouth and looks him straight in the eye, tells him _don't_, and shuts the door in his face before she's searching frantically for her phone. She calls Agent Hill, asks her what Agent Barton's status is, and when she hears her hesitate on the other end, Natasha hangs up because _it's not true_.

She calls Fury next, demands for his secretary to put her through, who gives a goddamn if he's not taking calls. She's put through when she tells him who's calling and the secretary doesn't think twice about transferring her. When Natasha hears Fury sigh, hears him say, "I'm sorry to inform you that Agent Barton-," Natasha throws her phone at the wall, because she doesn't want to hear those words again—_can't _hear those words again.

She locks the door to her room, informs JARVIS that he's to turn off all surveillance immediately, and turns to her liquor cabinet, grabbing her best handle of vodka, and then grabs another two handles, because god _knows _she'll need them.

She sits on her couch, a bottle in each hand, and she revels in the way the alcohol burns as it slides down her throat and settles in her stomach, revels in the way it distracts her, momentarily, from the pain that she's trying so fucking hard to ignore. It's there, settling in the pit of her stomach, in her heart, and she can't help the heaviness she feels, even while she's empty.

Natasha is nothing without Clint. That is how she thinks of herself and that's how she's always thought of herself. He was her savior, her light. He found her shattered, broken, dancing with death and he saved her—picked up her pieces and remade her, making her his in the process and he'd _never even know_.

What's she got to live for, she thinks, if what she's been living for is no longer there? She knows what Clint would say if he saw her, rotting in her misery, he'd want her to get up and live anyways, live for him because it would make him happy, _if he were alive_, she adds, laughing bitterly.

* * *

She's downed the first two handles and the third one is cradled in her hands, half of it already gone. She's drowned out the voices and the banging on the wood, Pepper pleading with her to _please open the door._

When she finally does open the door, her face is drawn and she's swaying a bit on her feet, and she assures Pepper that she's alright, that she just needs time to think, and she shoots her her best smile, and it would be convincing if Pepper didn't know that Natasha only lets herself get drunk when she stops caring, and Natasha always cares.

But Pepper lets her go, pretends she doesn't see that Natasha can barely walk straight, and tells her that if she needs _anything_, to let her know. Natasha stumbles down the hallway, flinging a hand over her shoulder in acknowledgment, and makes her way up and onto the roof, _Clint's favorite spot_, she thinks.

As she ambles towards the railing that separates her from the open air in front of her, Natasha realizes, turns around and rips out the wires in JARVIS' speakers, because she knows Pepper—knows she'll have him watching her but she doesn't want to hear him.

She makes her way back to the barrier and perches on it, her hair dangling over her shoulders and blowing in the breeze. She hasn't been thinking much as she's made her way up here, she realizes, and while she's drunk, she knows what she wants to do. What she _has _to do. Her heart hangs heavy in her chest and it's bleeding, the sorrow pouring out of it filling every crevice of her body and she can't stand the darkness and sadness that's spilling over her, creeping like a shadow that won't go away because she's lost her light.

She stands then, and even in her inebriated state, Natasha keeps her balance on the rail, because this isn't like stumbling down a hallway. Her arms hang limp by her sides and she tilts her head back, eyes closed, and it's then that Natasha realizes how wet her cheeks are, and she wonders how long they've been this way. Her lips turn up into a smile, small and melancholy, her eyebrows furrowed just slightly, and she whispers something that's got her shoulders trembling, but her words are lost in the wind.

Her body pitches forward and she's falling, but the lines in her forehead have disappeared and she feels weightless, likes she's been released by a burden that she hadn't noticed. She feels free and she thinks now, she can finally be happy.

* * *

A week later, the Avengers are scattered around the tower, and none of them have really spoken about what's happened—about the loss of two of their people.

They're sitting in their shared kitchen, when JARVIS announces the arrival of an unknown guest, and then the elevator doors open to reveal Clint, a duffel bag tossed over one shoulder and a large grin plastered across his face.

Pepper drops her mug, the tea spilling, unnoticed, across the floor.

No one's said anything and it pains them all to see the way his eyes search for Natasha, before he notices the way they're all staring at him, as if they've seen a ghost.

"Did I miss something?" He asks, and Pepper has to excuse herself from the room when he chuckles.

Tony's the first one to take action and he gets up, grabbing Clint by the elbow and leading him from the room. Clint looks back at the three men still sitting at the table and his eyebrows draw together in confusion at the sympathy radiating from each and every one of them.

When they get to the hallway, Tony stops and looks Clint in the eye.

"We thought you were dead, man."

And it takes Clint a minute to realize what Tony's just said. He asks him to repeat it.

"SHIELD told us you died a week ago during your mission."

The only thing that comes to Clint's mind is Natasha.

"Shit!" He exclaims, his fist hitting the wall next to him.

"Those assholes were supposed to tell you all I was okay. That was my cover; I 'died' when things started to go too far and SHIELD needed me out of Bangkok."

He starts towards the elevator.

"I need to go see Natasha, is she in her room? She's probably flipping a shit."

His finger is on the button when Tony stops him.

"We need to talk."

Clint's eyes narrow, and his breathing quickens, his jaw clenches.

"No, I should go see Natasha." He's avoiding what he thinks he might hear but doesn't want to.

"Clint..."

Tony reaches for his shoulder but Clint shoves him back, pushes the button and tells JARVIS to go to Natasha's floor, and when the AI hesitates, Clint yells at him and repeats his command.

Natasha's floor is empty, and while Clint had expected it, hope had burned in him, told him everything was alright and that Natasha would be right there to greet him, hug him, maybe even kiss him.

Her things haven't been touched since, well, since _it _happened, because no one's actually bulked up the courage to face reality. Her bed is still unmade and the towel she'd used to dry herself lies in a pile on her bathroom floor. Her phone remains shattered on the ground next to her bed, and the empty vodka bottles are strewn across her couch.

Clint wills himself not to cry. His breath comes out harshly through his nose and his hands grip at his hair, and he's breathing too quickly, his eyes clenched shut. When h's stopped hyperventilating, he leaves her room, finds Tony and asks him—no, _tells _him, "Show me."

Tony doesn't comply at first, he falters, because nobody should be shown _that_, but Clint's not stupid and he knows that Tony still has the footage and he knows where to find it, if he has to.

When they get to the surveillance room, Tony offers him a chair, but Clint refuses and continues to stand, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted to look at the large screen.

He sees Natasha, can tell she's drunk by the way she's carrying herself—with her shoulders slumped and her feet dragging, her body lurching every few steps. He knows this is a bad sign already, because when Natasha drinks, she keeps it classy, doesn't let herself get shitfaced because she's a lady and she doesn't like the loss of control.

He watches as she claws at JARVIS' wires; watches as she sits precariously on the railing, and his breath catches in his chest when she stands. He wills her to get down, to get back inside in the safe confines of the tower, to _be okay_, but his efforts are futile because this is a recording and the ending is inevitable.

Clint spots the glimmering tracks across her skin and this is the first time he's seen Natasha cry—actually cry—and it's the first time he's not there for her, isn't able to be there for her, because she's gone, he reminds himself, and you can't comfort an image. Sure, he's seen her broken and trembling, held her in his arms, comforted her, seen her eyes red and shiny, but he's never been witness to what he sees now; Natasha is defeated, tears streaming down her cheeks, a leak that can't be stopped. He comes undone when he sees her lips moving, and Clint has always been good at reading lips, and his body begins to tremble as her lips form the words he's been yearning to hear for so, _so _long.

_I always loved you._

He feels like he's drowning and it isn't until Tony begins to shake his shoulders that he realizes he's forgotten to breathe, so he gasps for air, his chest heaving, but it's like he just can't get enough. His eyelashes are wet and he doesn't know when he'd started to cry, or when he'd squeezed his eyes shut, but Tony's pretending he hasn't noticed, and Clint is grateful.

He thanks Tony, excuses his self from the room, and starts back in the direction of Natasha's. When he returns, he locks the door and tells JARVIS to turn off all communication in the room.

Clint makes his way to the couch and his body slumps down on top of it, his limbs heavy and head lolling, and he picks up the handle that Natasha hadn't finished yet, brings it to his lips and holds it there for a few seconds, because he can still _taste _her on the lip of the bottle and his eyes slide shut as he savors it, a bittersweet sensation, before he tilts his head back and lets the liquid burn a path down his esophagus.

As he lies on the couch, he mourns Natasha; he mourns what might have been—what _should _have been. They'd had so many fucking chances, lingering touches, stolen glances, drifting gazes, moments where they were a hair's breadth away from kissing. But they'd been too stupid to do anything about it because they were so worried about being rejected or compromised that neither noticed that the latter happened anyways.

Clint knows he'll never be happy because she's not there with him and he knows it may seem petty in the eyes of others, but he doesn't know how to live without her.

Twelve years, they'd been together; twelve years, they'd had each other's backs; twelve years, they'd fought together; twelve years they'd been best friends; and twelve years they'd been dancing around each other, always teasing but never doing.

There's regret and despondency seeping out of Clint's pores and he realizes there's only one way to stop it that he'll be okay with, because Natasha'd become a part of him and you can't survive when your vital organs have been ripped out.

He rifles through her drawers and grabs the sharpest knife he can find. When he sits back down, he hesitates, not because he doesn't want to do this (because he _needs_ to), but because he's never done this before, never been at such a low point in his life, but he knows in this instant, without _her_, there's no other way. This way, they can be together.

Clint considers, briefly, how this will affect the others, and he thinks about the fact that someone is going to have to clean up the mess he's about to make on the couch and carpet, but his body feels leaden and he just wants this to end because he doesn't want to be here a second longer without Natasha.

He drags the tip of the knife along his veins, from his wrist to the middle of his forearm, and then does the same to his other arm. He hisses at the pain, his teeth clenched and nerves screaming, but he's too far gone to care as he watches the blood well and then seep and then spill. It's kind of beautiful, he thinks as he lets his head fall back into the cushions, the stark contrast between his blood and his skin as it pales and the sticky warmth drips down his arms and trickles through his fingers.

His vision's getting blurry and his head feels lighter, and Clint lets out a breath of relief as he begins to lose consciousness.

* * *

He can hear their voices, hear them calling his name, telling him to wake up, but all he can focus on is Natasha, light flooding from behind her head and it's so bright it looks like her hair is bleeding. Her hand is outstretched and she's got such a serene smile gracing her face; he wonders at how absolutely breathtaking she is.

When their fingers meet and her hand curls around his and she presses their lips together, it's like coming up for air and Clint finally feels like everything is right in the world because they're finally together and _nothing_ can stop them now.

* * *

_A/N: I came up with the idea for this a while ago and I don't remember how it came up, but it took me a while to actually write it. I apologize in advance if anyone feels that I was romanticizing suicide, because that wasn't my intent. I honestly just have this perfect headcannon for Clint and Natasha, in which their love is so great that they can't live without one another. They do end up happy at the end of this, so I hope that makes up for any negative feelings anyone has towards this, and thank you for taking the time to read. Reviews are always, always, always appreciated._

_Disclaimer: Everything is owned by Marvel._


End file.
